


A Wolf in the Pacific

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV), Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crossover, Gen, One Shot, edited slightly bc the original giftee of this fic turned out to be kinda gross so, i still like the work tho :'v
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacific Rim AU - Will and his human co-pilot, the mute Winston, battle through a storm back to the Shatterdown, where he meets a very special doctor for the first time; the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter. Very, very short. May get a sequel. Who knows??</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf in the Pacific

**Author's Note:**

> hey man i enjoy a good cross over, dont you. totally comment/message me if you want to adopt the idea(s) here and write them better yourself.

Slumped in the left pilot harness of Mark IV Jaeger - battered and dented and chipped, but still functional - Tornado Whitefang, PPDC Ranger Will Graham breathes heavily, damp curls sticking to his forehead and swirling around his ears. His chest heaves and he coughs quietly, feet skittering underneath him as he tries to stand up. Tornado Whitefang lurches upright, her knees locking into place, and slowly straightens back up, back rigid and proud. Will’s right knee gives way and he buckles in his harness, a sharp gasp escaping his ribs, but he manages to scramble back to steady ground again. The floor is slick, and his fellow pilot’s breathing rises above the clank of machinery and the rasp of the ocean sucking at Whitefang’s legs as she staggers back to dry land.

Coughing and shaking, Will battles with his joints to lift Whitefang’s left foot above the swell of the waves, the spray battering her dew claws, to take a step forward. A low whine rises in the pilot pod and the Drift throbs against his temples, trickling down his skin in his sweat, seeping into his very bones, but Will surges forward with the last reserves of energy he can muster. He is a pilot for a reason, he tells himself, he is strong and he is powerful and he is not alone - the thud of two seperate hearts fills his ears, filling the cavity, and he latches onto that to push him forwards. Whitefang howls inside his head, urging him to push on.

The radio system in his helmet crackles into life as she comes into range again, and the voice of Alana Bloom - friend, colleague, shoulder to cry on - shivers down into his ears. She’s furious and terrified and relieved to hear him heave into his mic, and Will knows she just leaped upright out of her seat, right hand with its red nail polish slamming into the control desk. He can almost hear the breath in US Marshall Jack Crawford’s throat catc, stood just over her shoulder.

"Will! Will, you fool!,” Alana hisses, already rocking back into her seat, already reassuming her position and reassuming control. Will can envisage her hands flying over the switches and buttons on the desk in front of her, readying the Shatterdome to receive Tornado Whitefang back from her battle. “How is Winston?”

"He’s fine," Will chokes against his helmet, knees locking against the waves swarming Whitefang’s legs below him, and glances sideways. Through the haze, his co-pilot thrusts his thumb up in silent reassurance, deep sea trench eyes locked on the target of home ahead of them. The storm roars in anger as the Jaeger’s fingers clutch at the dented doors of the Shatterdome, metallic heart throbbing in her chest in time to the two human hearts hammering against flesh and bone and fear in the driving seat above. Will scrabbles in his harness to regain full balance as Alana’s sharp tongue guides him into the immense bunker.

The door begin to grind shut behind Whitefang as one foot after another crawls its way into the Shatterdome, sinking into the reinforced floor with the weight of exhaustion and the scent of cold, sweaty relief bearing her down. He is strong, Will reminds himself and he and Winston grind the last few steps to safety. He is strong and he is not alone and he does not ned to worry as the rift crackles against the back of his eyelids, letting them close. Winston pants, wriggling himself free of his harness the second Whitefang comes to a ssettled halt and tosses his helmet over, tripping across the cockpit to catch Will as he shudders sideways, limp in his harness.

A cold nose on his cheek is the last thing he can feel and see and remember before Will Graham, PPDC Ranger, slips out of consciousness and into a breach-deep abyss.

-

Alana worries at Will’s forehead with a face cloth, pushing his curls back with her other hand. Her nail polish is chipped, like her expression; moody and worried at the still vacant look in his eyes. Will blinks several times, bringing everything into focus. The torsos of the concerned past Alana’s tangled mane come into sight - and she’s still wearing her headset, mic still floating not far from her lips. He wavers a little and his hands scrunch on the hospital bed, white sheets too bright to look down at.

Will centers himself. He is in the Shatterdome. He is in the hospital wing. He is surrounded by familiar scents and sounds and the last tendrils of the drift is rolling away down the back of his neck. His fingers flatten on the bedding, joints stretching as he releases his tension.

It is going to be okay.

"You had us worried for a moment there, Will," soft, unfamiliar syllables push Alana out of the way and delicate, unfamiliar fingertips find their way under Will’s chin. Floppy blond hair peeks over Alana’s other shoulder as Winston tries to move in, but the foreign scent and foreign touch catches his attention, catches his skin and turning his eyes upwards. "How are you feeling? Do you feel any pain?" The voice is full of concern. The eyes, maroon like the sky at dusk, are full of the same concern, whispering down his arm into his fingers. Will shifts a little, and nods.

"I’m," Will’s voice crackles a little and Winston’s dog-pad-rough palm settles on his shoulder, "I’m fine. A little pain, in my," his fingers brush over his knees, "my legs." The unfamiliar eyes blink and nod in understanding, and he shoos the others back with his free hand. They oblige - reluctantly - and Winston lifts his calloused palm away, tapping a quick supportive message into Will’s shoulder. Under his shirt, clean and pulled over his tense skin by someone else’s hands, he rolls his shoulder in return. Winston makes a quiet, rough sound, and steps away. The unfamiliar shadow solidifies into a man, taller and softer all at the same time.

"That is to be expected and it can be easily dealt with, don’t worry. I’m Dr. Lecter, Will," his voice is smooth, marinaded in comfort and the faint taste of sweet tea on his breath, "and I am here to help."


End file.
